Adonis Falling
by The Lady Avaritia
Summary: Grantaire marks himself down as a follower at the downfall of a religion.


he is beautiful, you think often times when you look at him, with his marble skin and golden hair, he is like a statue of some ancient greek god, and you think to yourself that Adonis wasn't mean to grovel in the dirt and lead a revolution, when he could just as easily be mounting a golden throne on Olympus. Enjolras doesn't see it that way.

Enjolras sees the world as it is – rotting and decaying, Enjolrasis angry, furious, even, he wants difference, he wants change, he wants the mud and dust of the paris streets matted with the crimson hues of the angry men's blood. He wants to see this city, no, this whole country raise as one, Enjolras wants…

And he will be disappointed, and you want to spare him that, because you know, you know, that it is too early for change and this beautiful flawless marble statue boy-god can't inspire them despite his beauty, despite his fire. You'd rather see him burn out than see him smothered with disappointment, but it will be all the same, because you are bound to failure.

When it becomes clear that you are the last barricade standing, when it becomes clear that your god has fallen and he will not be followed by anyone but you, the mad bacchanalias, then you realize that you would rather die yourself than see the marble of his demeanor cracked up and broken. His hollow eyes burn over the bruise-like rings of sleeplessness on his gaunt cheeks, and he seems now, made not of marble, but rather of ancient sallow porcelain, and porcelain cracks much easier than marble, you think, and they will smash him up on the paved streets, and they will gring is graceful limps to dust if you don't do something about it, but there is nothing you can do.

Enjolras is god, like Cosette is goddess, and you are a mere mortal who kisses the lips of cold statues and violates temples of holiness, because you cannot bear to have the divine light of them shining upon your face. You make up your mind.

You would rather see Enjolras dead than see him broken, and your revolution is doomed to a failure, which you see when they break out the canons in front of your feeble barricade, whose brittle pillars are inlaid with your very own fragile human bones, to be cracked up and broken and spread though the city by the destructive force of a country mechanism that will not be changed.

You grab his waxy stone cold wrist, his sharp bones digging into your palm and you pull him safely behind one of the buildings and you say to him things, that you do not remember. You might even be praying to this angelic war-god of yours, with his fire eyes and ice heart and golden hair and marble lips. You think now, you probably are praying to him, praying for mercy and forgiveness and blessing, when your hands wrap almost despite yourself around his marble body and you pull him to your chest, enjolras, enjolras, enjolras, the god you would have followed to the depths of hell, the beautiful, beautiful creature of temptation…

He lets you benevolently, albeit reluctantly in your worshipful bliss, lets you embrace him, and then parts his lips when you kiss him and his breath tastes like blood, that you want to drink in, carnivorous pagan that you are, so you kiss him harder, press him against the building wall and let the brick scratch him up, then lap up the blood of the scratches.

He is fire and ice against you, he is everything you have dreamed of, everything you could want, and kissing him is madness, touching him is ecstasy, you are a follower of the divine right, and his light will not be extinguished.

He is god you think, god belongs to heaven, and so you take solace in comforting yourself briefly like this. He tries to break out of your embrace to return to where the fighting is going, but you shove him again into the wall hard and you force another kiss on his soft plaint lips. You feel him cracking under you as your hands find his neck and you press, press, press… he trashes wildly and you beg forgiveness, you the most unfaithful of his followers, you plead madness and oblivion. You will not see him taken in, you will not see him demolished by the unfaithful, and as you see the fire go out from his eyes and his empty shell fall into pieces in your arms and slump against the wall, you do a final show of respect, and you lay the body of your god down on the dusty ground. You kiss him on the lips one last time, gently, his matted golden hair bright against the dust of the ground he never seemed to touch, the rocky pavements digging in the soft mortal shell that contained the brightest deity you could've hoped to believe in. You mark down for yourself the end of a religion.


End file.
